Unworthy
by AzraelPhoenix
Summary: Bucky, fighting against his past, is losing hope. Oneshot, post-CA2:TWS. Rated T for language/implications.


It had been a year since the destruction of S.H.I.E.L.D. A year since he had realised his best friend, his only friend at times in his life, was still alive. Partly alive at least. Alive without the memories of him, of their past, of their part in the war. At least then he hadn't had memories of the fall. Now, though, he wasn't so sure. He had been with Bucky for a few months. It had taken that long just to track him down, and get to him, and by the time they had, he had remembered. He never said how much he remembered, but there were some days that Bucky looked at him, when he thought Steve wasn't looking, and there was sadness, and remembered pain in his eyes. Never anger though. Sometimes guilt. Not that he had anything to be guilty of. It was Steve's fault this had happened, his fault that Bucky had been on the train in the first place, his fault he had been left in Russia with Hydra for so long. But now, now they were together. It was easier on the both of them. Or, at least it had been.

Recently, Buck had been looking more and more dejected. He'd get back from another Hydra raid with an even deeper look of concern on his face. He was so expressive sometimes, that if he was caught off-guard, Steve could see his doubts written across his face. Doubt that he was accomplishing anything, doubt that he was making a difference, doubt that he was doing anything more than furthering Hydra's plan of death, chaos, and destruction. 'Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.' That line had always gotten to him, but even more so now. There seemed to be no end in sight, seemed that for every facility he burned to the ground, two more were found. Steve had tried to console him, tried to show him the truth of what he was accomplishing, but the doubts were still there.

Last night had been especially bad. He had come home fuming, but he wouldn't say why. He hadn't said much about the mission, but there had been fear, true fear, in his eyes. Fear, and guilt. Steve was afraid too, though he didn't show it. Afraid for Bucky. Afraid that his best friend and lover was slipping into a never-ending spiral of hate and guilt. He knew he had to do something, but what? What could force him to see the truth? What could snap him out of this downward spiral before it was too late. Only one thing came to mind, one small thing. He was sure it would work, it had been long enough. He was sure there was nothing left for Bucky to absolve himself of. It was just time to prove it.

That morning, he woke up early. So goddamned early. Steve wasn't a morning person, never had been, but he had to do this early if he wanted to be back before Bucky, who _was_ a morning person, woke up. Extracting himself from the sheets, and Bucky's arms, took some careful manoeuvring in order to not wake the other man, but he managed it. Pulling on the first pair of pants he found, he left their room, heading straight for Thor's. It took some convincing, but Steve left a few minutes later with Mjölnir. He headed back to their room, and carefully placed the mighty hammer on Bucky's metal arm, which was sprawled over Steve's side of the bed. Not that it would crush anything else, that wasn't how it worked, but so Bucky wouldn't feel the contact, would only feel the weight when he tried to move his arm. He slipped back into bed, careful not to bump the arm on his side, and feigned sleep, knowing Bucky would wake up soon.

He slowly came to consciousness. He lifted his arms to rub his eyes. Or tried to. Something was on his left arm. Probably Steve. Reaching across, he pushed it off, up towards Steve's pillow, and rolled out of bed, stumbling to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later he was awake, freshly shaved, and showered. He came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair, to see Steve, sitting cross-legged on the bed, smug grin on his face. Why in the hell was he awake? Bucky usually couldn't get a response from the man until ten on their days off, and yet here he was, six in the morning, wide awake.

"What..?" He trailed off, hands pausing, as he noticed something that didn't belong. Mjölnir was sitting on Steve's pillow. In the exact place he had put Steve's arm ten minutes prior. It started to dawn on him that it hadn't been Steve's arm at all. It had been the hammer. The hammer that was essentially a fixed point in space and time. The hammer that could only be moved by someone it deemed worthy. The hammer that had been sitting on his arm. The hammer _he_ had moved. He closed his mouth, blinking, as his mind began connecting the dots. No one knew how the hammer measured worthiness of each person that touched it, but one thing was consistent - those who were deemed worthy were good people. People without, in Natasha's words, red on their ledger.

People that now included him.


End file.
